I came from my fishing as usual, and appeared at the “ball” with the gun and bag — only I had put on my best leather suit. It was late when I got to Sirilund; I heard them dancing inside. Someone called out: “Here’s the hunter, the Lieutenant.” A few of the young people crowded round me and wanted to see my catch; I had shot a brace of seabirds and caught a few haddock. Edwarda bade me welcome with a smile; she had been dancing, and was flushed.

“The first dance with me,” she said.

And we danced. Nothing awkward happened; I turned giddy, but did not fall. My heavy boots made a certain amount of noise; I could hear it myself, the noise, and resolved not to dance any more; I had even scratched their painted floor. But how glad I was that I had done nothing worse!

Herr Mack’s two assistants from the store were there, laboriously and with a solemn concentration. The Doctor took part eagerly in the set dances. Besides these gentlemen, there were four other youngish men, sons of families belonging to the parish, the Dean, and the district surgeons. A stranger, a commercial traveller, was there too; he made himself remarked by his fine voice, and tralala’ed to the music; now and again he relieved the ladies at the piano.

I cannot remember now what happened the first few hours, but I remember everything from the latter part of the night. The sun shone redly in through the windows all the time, and the seabirds slept. We had wine and cakes, we talked loud and sang, Edwarda’s laugh sounded fresh and careless through the room. But why had she never a word for me now? I went towards where she was sitting, and would have said something polite to her, as best I could; she was wearing a black dress, her confirmation dress, perhaps, and it was grown too short for her, but it suited her when she danced, and I thought to tell her so.

“That black dress . . . ” I began.

But she stood up, put her arm round one of her girl friends, and walked off with her. This happened two or three times. Well, I thought to myself, if it’s like that . . . But then why should she stand looking sorrowfully after me from the window when I go? Well, ’tis her affair!

A lady asked me to dance. Edwarda was sitting near, and I answered loudly:

“No; I am going home directly.”

Edwarda threw a questioning glance at me, and said: “Going? Oh, no, you mustn’t go.”

I started, and felt that I was biting my lip. I got up.

“What you said then seemed very significant to me, Edwarda,” I said darkly, and made a few steps towards the door.

The Doctor put himself in my way, and Edwarda herself came hurrying up.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” she said warmly. “I meant to say I hoped you would be the last to go, the very last. And besides, it’s only one o’clock . . . Listen,” she went on with sparkling eyes, “you gave our boatmen five daler for saving my shoe. It was too much.” And she laughed heartily and turned round to the rest.

I stood with open mouth, disarmed and confused.

“You are pleased to be witty,” I said. “I never gave your boatman five daler at all.”

“Oh, didn’t you?” She opened the door to the kitchen, and called the boatmen in. “Jakob, you remember the day you rowed us out to Korholmerne, and you picked up my shoe when it fell into the water?”

“Yes,” answered Jakob.

“And you were given five daler for saving it?”

“Yes, you gave me . . . ”

“Thanks, that will do, you can go.”

Now what did she mean by that trick? I thought she was trying to shame me. She should not succeed; I was not going to have that to blush for. And I said loudly and distinctly:

“I must point out to all here that this is either a mistake or a lie. I have never so much as thought of giving the boatman five daler for your shoe. I ought to have done so, perhaps, but up to now it has not been done.”

“Whereupon we shall continue the dance,” she said, frowning. “Why aren’t we dancing?”

“She owes me an explanation of this,” I said to myself, and watched for an opportunity to speak with her. She went into a side room, and I followed her.

“Skaal,” I said, and lifted a glass to drink with her.

“I have nothing in my glass,” she answered shortly.

But her glass was standing in front of her, quite full.

“I thought that was your glass.”

“No, it is not mine,” she answered, and turned away, and was in deep conversation with someone else.

“I beg your pardon then,” said I.

Several of the guests had noticed this little scene.

My heart was hissing within me. I said offendedly: “But at least you owe me an explanation . . . ”

She rose, took both my hands, and said earnestly:

“But not to-day; not now. I am so miserable. Heavens, how you look at me. We were friends once . . . ”

Overwhelmed, I turned right about, and went in to the dancers again.

A little after, Edwarda herself came in and took up her place by the piano, at which the travelling man was seated, playing a dance; her face at that moment was full of inward pain.

“I have never learned to play,” she said, looking at me with dark eyes. “If I only could!”

I could make no answer to this. But my heart flew out towards her once more, and I asked:

“Why are you so unhappy all at once, Edwarda? If you knew how it hurts me to see —”

“I don’t know what it is,” she said. “Everything, perhaps. I wish all these people would go away at once, all of them. No, not you — remember, you must stay till the last.”

And again her words revived me, and my eyes saw the light in the sun-filled room. The Dean’s daughter came over, and began talking to me; I wished her ever so far away, and gave her short answers. And I purposely kept from looking at her, for she had said that about my eyes being like an animal’s. She turned to Edwarda and told her that once, somewhere abroad — in Riga I think it was — a man had followed her along the street.

“Kept walking after me, street after street, and smiling across at me,” she said.

“Why, was he blind, then?” I broke in, thinking to please Edwarda. And I shrugged my shoulders as well.

The young lady understood my coarseness at once, and answered:

“He must have been blind indeed, to run after any one so old and ugly as I am.”

But I gained no thanks from Edwarda for that: she drew her friend away; they whispered together and shook their heads. After that, I was left altogether to myself.

Another hour passed. The seabirds began to wake out on the reefs; their cries sounded in through the open windows. A spasm of joy went through me at this first calling of the birds, and I longed to be out there on the islands myself . . .

The Doctor, once more in good humor, drew the attention of all present. The ladies were never tired of his society.............